Bingo Brown, Gypsy Lover

by Betsy Byars

  Love, Melissa

  Bingo loved this letter. It was the best one Melissa had ever written him. He had already answered it, and the answer was in his back pocket.

  Dear Melissa,

  I hope you won’t be mad with me, but I opened your present. For personal reasons which I won’t go into—I don’t want to bore you with my troubles at Christmas—I just couldn’t wait.

  I didn’t know what the gift was at first, but that was because it was your own personal invention. I imagine if Alexander Graham Bell had sent someone a telephone, they would have been puzzled too. But as soon as I read your letter, I got my notebooks and put them inside. I showed my parents how it worked. They had, of course, never seen such a thing before either.

  I’ll get your gift in the mail as soon as I can. I hope you’ll enjoy it, although it will never compare with your extraordinary gift to me.

  Love and graditute, Bingo

  Bingo was proud of that word extraordinary, because it was the first time he had used it in connection with a gift. Then at the last moment, just as he was folding the letter to put it in the envelope, he discovered he had misspelled gratitude, but by crossing the d and putting a small loop at the base of the t, that was corrected.

  Melissa’s note and the notebook holder had given him new manliness just at the moment when he needed it most. He now had the courage to go to K Mart where he was sure not only that he would find a gift, but a gift worthy of Melissa, a gift which would, unlike the shabby things he had seen at the mall, be perfect. Bingo could hardly wait to see it himself.

  He entered K Mart confidently and walked past the carts—he sensed instinctively that Melissa’s gift would not need to be pushed around the store.

  He walked past the scarves and umbrellas, ignoring them, also purses and luggage. It was like that old game of Hot and Cold. An internal thermostat was now saying to Bingo, “You’re warm. You’re getting warmer. You’re red-hot! You’re burning up! You’re on fire!”

  Bingo looked around. He now stood in Jewelry.

  He took a deep breath. He was directly in front of a counter of miscellaneous jewelry. A sign above warned ALL SALES FINAL.

  At first Bingo could not figure out why his inner being had stopped him here. The sale items were depressing—sprung barrettes on soiled cards, dingy plastic bracelets, frayed hair ribbons, strings of beads so snarled together it would have taken centuries to untangle them, tarnished silver jewelry boxes—

  And then he saw them. For one electric moment Bingo could not move, could not breathe, could not even reach out his hand. They lay like gems on a pile of trash. It was as if they were wrapped already, with a card on top bearing the name “Melissa.”

  Earrings. Golden earrings.

  He picked them up.

  The earrings were small, not too pretentious or gypsyish for a girl of Melissa’s age. Indeed, Bingo thought, these earrings would be in good taste for a person of any age, any social standing. And—he gasped aloud at this—they cost fifty-nine cents.

  He was so astonished that his first impulse was to find a salesperson and demand if this could possibly be correct. Fifty-nine dollars seemed more like it for earrings like these.

  No salesperson was available, however, so Bingo—trusting to luck—proceeded to Christmas Cards. He selected one that said—this had thrilled him too, “Christmas is a Time for Love”—and inside was—“and Lovers.”

  Inside was, also, a picture of two reindeer embracing, as best they could, and Melissa would like that. She would be surprised, as he had been, about how ardent reindeer can appear.

  He paid for his items and pedaled to the post office. He waited at the table behind a businessman who was sorting through some important mail. When the man was through, Bingo stepped up and took the post office pen. He had always wanted a reason to use this pen.

  On the inside of the card he wrote, “Well, here they are, Melissa. I hope you like them. I wish I could see your ears with them in them.”

  He regretted that “them in them.” It wasn’t really top-notch writing. But the post office pen didn’t erase. He added:

  Merry Christmas forever, Bingo

  Bingo removed the price tag containing the ridiculous price of fifty-nine cents and inserted the earrings in the Christmas card. He sealed the flap, addressed it with the post office pen, bought two stamps, one for his letter and one for his present, and dropped them through the slot.

  As they slipped out of sight, Bingo had an especially cheerful thought. Now Melissa would have two items for her Bingo Letter Holder—a card and a letter.

  Then, with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, Bingo got on his bicycle and started for home.

  Bad Tidings

  BINGO WAS WHISTLING “JINGLE Bells.” He was almost home, pedaling his bike in a brisk, carefree way. With every mile, his heart seemed to grow lighter. Bingo was a free man at last.

  He was so full of Christmas spirit he thought he would pop open like a piñata and sprinkle the neighborhood with goodies.

  He finished “Jingle Bells” and went immediately into “White Coral Bells”—a bell medley, he thought. He felt even better. He put his hands in his pockets and coasted down a hill.

  There was nothing, he realized, for raising a man’s spirits like selecting the perfect gift for the perfect girl.

  Of course, he reminded himself, there was the faint, faint chance that other girls might come across with gifts—Cici and Boots, for example, but he would be ready. Receiving a piece of cloth with handles on it had left him immune to future shocks, the way serum prepares one to resist disease. Never again would he cry out hoarsely—that was his mother’s exaggeration, of course—cry out over a gift. Anything he got he would take like a man.

  Also, he now knew what to choose for girls. Of course there were no more golden earrings in that sale pile, but there might be other possibilities.

  Bingo was whistling “The Bells of St. Mary’s” as he put his bicycle in the garage and entered the house.

  “Mom!” he called. He shut the door behind him. “Mom, where are you? You are going to be very proud of me. Mom?”

  His mother didn’t answer.

  Bingo went into the kitchen. There was no sign she’d been making her Christmas specialty—rum balls. She hadn’t even started supper. Maybe this would be a good time to make another attempt on the old-timey fudge.

  He leaned on the sink. Her car had been in the garage, though, so she was bound to be around somewhere.

  Bingo checked the bedroom and went back into the living room.

  “Mom!”

  He saw there was a note stuck under the VCR. This was where the family left messages for each other. He should have noticed it when he first came in, but he was so filled with peace and goodwill that—

  He read the note.

  Bingo, I’m taking your mom to the hospital—hope it’s a false alarm—I’ll call when I know something—Dad.

  Bingo stopped breathing. He read it again. The short rushed sentences hit him so hard, he had to sit down in a chair.

  He read the note a third time.

  This third reading left him short of breath. He felt as if he needed to do something like sit down in a chair, but he had already done that.

  He went over the note again, word by word, trying to find something there that he hadn’t seen before. The words were the kind that would say the exact same thing no matter how many times you read them, no matter where you placed the emphasis, no matter how slowly or how—

  The phone rang.

  Bingo reached for it so quickly he knocked the receiver to the floor. He pulled it up by the cord.

  He said, “Dad?”

  “No, Harrison, it’s Grammy,” his grandmother’s voice answered.

  Bingo’s grandmother was the only person who called him by his real name—Harrison. Usually he liked it. It was refreshing. But now, for the first time, he didn’t. Harrison had a formal sound. It was the name someone official wo
uld use before delivering bad news.

  He rushed in with, “Grammy, Dad’s taken Mom to the hospital.”

  “I know. I was calling to make sure you had gotten the message.”

  “Yes, I got it.”

  The note was still in his hand, trembling like a leaf. He put it down beside the phone.

  “What happened?”

  “Your mom started having pains about noon. She called the doctor and he said for her to come to the hospital. I’m sure the only reason he had her come to the hospital instead of the office is because that’s where he happened to be.”

  “She shouldn’t be having pains, should she?”

  “No, but it happens sometimes.”

  “But it’s too soon. Pains weren’t—pain wasn’t supposed to happen for weeks—months…. Mom’s just—” He paused. “She’s just a little over seven and one-fourths months pregnant.”

  “I know. I’ve been keeping track of it myself.”

  “So, it’s way too soon!”

  “Bingo, we just have to hope for the best. It’s not like the old days. They have drugs now—ways to stop premature deliveries. I’m glad she is in the hospital. At least she’ll be where they can do something for her.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to Mom.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to her.”

  “Or the baby.”

  “Bingo—”

  “I want to go to the hospital. I want to know what’s happening.”

  “No, Bingo—”

  “If you don’t want to go, drive me.”

  “Bingo, our being there will not help at this point. We’d just be in the way.”

  “Or I’ll go on my bike.”

  “Bingo, I’ve got a friend in Admittance, and I’m getting ready to call her. She’ll know if your mom’s going to be admitted. If she is, I’ll call you right back.”

  “I don’t want to just sit here.”

  “Bingo, your mother could be on her way home right now.”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  “And if she has been admitted, I’ll come over and we’ll wait together—maybe go out to eat.”

  “I couldn’t eat if she’s been admitted.”

  “Well, then we’ll just do whatever we feel like doing—hang out.”

  Bingo didn’t answer.

  “Now you wait to hear from me.”

  He still didn’t answer.

  “Bingo, don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I won’t do anything foolish,” he said, emphasizing the last word.

  He hung up the phone and sat slumped in his chair, his hands dangling between his knees. He had never heard the house so silent. The only sound was the faint whisper of an occasional pine needle falling from the tree onto the presents below.

  Bingo couldn’t stand to wait any longer. He picked up the phone and dialed his grandmother’s number. The line was busy.

  Bingo twisted with impatience. He sat sideways in the chair, facing the door.

  What was taking his grandmother so long? She’d had time to talk to everybody in the whole hospital, hadn’t she?

  He hung up the phone and sat in the oppressive silence. It was as if a different, heavier air mass now existed in the living room. This was certainly not the fresh, pine-scented air he had inhaled on his arrival.

  How could anybody survive on this thick stuff?

  And why didn’t his grandmother call?

  Maybe she was trying to call me when I was trying to call her.

  Immediately Bingo picked up the phone and dialed his grandmother’s number again. This time the phone rang. Bingo straightened and took a deep breath.

  The phone rang and rang and rang. Bingo let it ring twenty times before he finally hung up.

  Then he moved to the sofa and sat watching out the window for his grandmother.

  She’s been admitted, he thought.

  On Holding Hands

  “HI, MOM.”

  “Oh, Bingo, come in.”

  Bingo walked into his mother’s hospital room and stood awkwardly by her bed. He said, “Dad will be up in a minute. He had to park the car.”

  There was a tube in his mother’s arm, and a clear liquid was dripping through it. If it wasn’t for that and for the unfamiliar hospital gown and for a sort of worried expression in her eyes, she looked perfectly normal.

  Bingo said, “How are you?”

  “Well, I’m all right for the moment.”

  “You look fine.”

  “I am, but I may have to stay in bed for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. They won’t tell you anything in the hospital, Bingo. They won’t answer a single question. The nurses say, ‘You’ll have to ask the doctor,’ and the doctor won’t even say that much.”

  She smoothed the spread and let her hands rest on her stomach.

  “Does something hurt?” Bingo asked anxiously.

  She shook her head. “No…So, what did you do today?” Bingo could see his mother was making a real effort to be interested.

  “Nothing much. I mailed Melissa’s present. That was about it.”

  “What’d you get her?”

  “Just some earrings.”

  Bingo wanted his mother to grin and say, “Not gypsy earrings?” in a taunting way. He would willingly allow her to taunt him if it would help her feel more cheerful.

  His mother, however, wasn’t up to her usual taunts tonight. She smoothed the spread over her stomach again.

  Bingo cleared his throat. “Tomorrow I’m going to make your fudge.”

  “My what?”

  “The old-timey fudge, remember? You said that’s what you wanted for Christmas.”

  “Oh, don’t bother with that, Bingo.”

  “I want to make it for you.”

  “I don’t want any fudge.”

  “Maybe you don’t right now, but by Christmas—”

  “No, don’t bother.” She sighed. “All I want is to hold on to this baby.”

  “Of course.”

  This was the second time Bingo had visited someone in the hospital, and hospitals made Bingo nervous. He saw so many things he didn’t want to have happen to him.

  He had been nervous the first time too, but Melissa had been with him then. He and Melissa had held hands.

  And, Bingo decided, if you had to visit someone in the hospital, it was definitely a good idea to have someone along to hold your hand.

  Bingo remembered how natural that hand-holding had been. He and Melissa were visiting their teacher Mr. Mark who had been in a motorcycle accident.

  They were both nervous, but they were trying not to show it. They were walking down the hall, not even thinking about such a thing as holding hands, and then as they entered Mr. Mark’s hospital room, they had reached for each other at the exact same moment. It was the nicest, most natural, most unplanned thing in the world, as if their hands couldn’t help themselves.

  Then later he, like a stupid idiot, had started worrying about how to let go! What a child he had been! He was afraid they would hold hands all the way to the car, of all things, that they would have to get in the car holding hands, that that would be awkward—well, it would have been awkward with Melissa in the front seat and him in the back.

  Melissa had been the one to let go. “My hand’s getting sweaty,” she had said.

  Well, if he had Melissa’s hand now he wouldn’t let go no matter how sweaty it got.

  Bingo put his hands in his pockets. He said, “I wonder what’s keeping Dad.”

  A woman in the next bed was watching a movie on the ceiling television, and Bingo glanced up at the screen. He wasn’t interested in the movie, but he didn’t seem to have anywhere else to look.

  Bingo and the woman watched the movie together for a moment. A large quantity of something resembling red jelly was oozing down some steps.

  The woman smiled at him. “The Blob,” she said.

  Bingo said, “Ah.” It was a word Bingo
never used outside of the doctor’s office, and it sounded strange, out of place in a hospital room.

  Bingo glanced at the woman out of the side of his eyes. Her stomach was flat so she’d probably had her baby, and she was cheerful so she’d probably gotten what she wanted.

  The woman said, “I’m only watching this because I have a thing about Steve McQueen.”

  His mom said, “Oh, Sam, there you are.” Both Bingo and his mother looked at his father in the doorway with real gratitude.

  His father crossed the room and took her hand. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, fine, but this is terrible. I should be home. The tree is half-trimmed. I haven’t made a single cookie. I—”

  “Hey, I didn’t know you knew how to make cookies,” he said in a gently teasing way.

  “Well, I call those little rum balls I make cookies. I was going to make those.”

  “Bingo can whip up some rum balls.”

  “And, oh, Bingo.” She turned her face to him as if she’d just remembered he was there. “Bingo, I was planning to get you a new jacket. Ever since you showed me how short the sleeves were on your old one, I’ve felt guilty.”

  “They aren’t that short,” Bingo said graciously, extending his arms. “And my arms do seem to have stopped growing for the moment.” He was glad to have some good news to report.

  “Bingo,” she said seriously, “will you do something for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you buy yourself a jacket?”

  “Yes.”

  “And wrap it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And put it under the tree?”

  His dad said, “Next you’ll be asking him to look surprised when he opens it!”

  His mother smiled at last. “And, Bingo, listen, you can call Melissa long-distance, if you like.”

  Bingo gasped with surprise. It was as if his mother had read his mind, as if she had been lying there knowing that he was standing there thinking about holding Melissa’s hand. To throw her off the track he raised his eyebrows innocently and said, “Melissa?”

  “Yes, Melissa.”

  “Mom, I think I should warn you that she is still in Oklahoma.”

  “I know that.”

  “Mom, you said I could never call her again until I worked off the fifty-five dollars for previous calls. I’ve got about ten more dollars to go.”